4 Death at the Happiness Club

by Cecilia Peartree

  As she approached, she took a brown paper parcel out of the bag and held it up triumphantly.

  'Fantastic!' said Christopher. He was so relieved that he could have hugged her, except that he would have squashed their meal beyond repair.

  It had started to rain again, quite hard, and they retreated into the tent to eat. The fish and chips, although cooling off rapidly, tasted wonderful.

  'I hope it was all right to have salt and sauce,' said Caroline.

  'That's perfect,' said Christopher. He felt he should have congratulated her on successfully completing this mundane task, except that she might have found it patronising. And yet he thought she deserved applause, or recognition, or at least some small sign that he was pleased with her. Traditionally he had always been the provider of food in their relationship, at least in recent years, so it made a pleasant change to have this reversed.

  He just wasn't sure if it was healthy for her to be this anxious to please. It certainly wasn't natural for her. Ever since childhood she had resisted adopting these female ploys, and he had at times admired her for it, at other times wished she would be more normal. It was similar to the ambivalence with which he regarded Amaryllis. Maybe he just liked to feel ambivalent about women.

  Before he could start worrying about whether this in itself was abnormal, she said, 'If you'd like to go over to the bar and have a drink, just go. Don't mind me.'

  'But won't the smell of alcohol - ?'

  She shook her head decisively. 'I can't cope with being in a pub just yet. But smelling it on your breath won't send me over the edge. It's OK, Christopher. I'll just get into the sleeping bag and read for a while.'

  'If you're sure,' he said cautiously. Although he wasn't by any means desperate for a drink, and indeed he only usually went to the pub in Pitkirtly because that was where his friends gathered, it would certainly be nice to get away from Caroline for a little while. She probably wanted a break from him too. It was only natural. They weren't used to spending hours on end with each other.

  There was a bar on the campsite, which he avoided on the grounds that there seemed to be some sort of country and western event going on there; instead he walked into town and found a proper pub somewhere along the main road, with taciturn local people, a grumpy barmaid and a cluster of old ladies in woolly hats who reminded him of Mrs Stevenson.

  A couple of pints later, he thought he had better return to the tent. His feet were quiet on the grass, and when he unzipped the door to the tent, Caroline jumped, spilling the liquid she was drinking all down her face, her front, all over the sleeping bag…

  'Christopher! What the hell are you doing back already?'

  'Caroline,' he countered. 'What the hell are you drinking?'

  She scowled.

  'You made me spill it,' she muttered, trying to mop up the mess with the dry corner of the sleeping bag.

  'Don't do that - you'll get it everywhere,' he said, and stepped forward to help. She pushed him away.

  'I can do it. Just get out of my way.'

  'Give me the bottle.'

  'No!'

  She clung on to the brandy bottle and glared at him, eyes fierce and protective.

  'But it'll interact with your medication.'

  'No it won’t,' she said. 'I haven't taken my medication yet. This is to help me sleep.'

  'For God's sake, Caroline…'

  He lowered himself on to his own sleeping bag and sat there staring at her. All the effort that had gone into saving her… all the months of hospital and therapy, and the things the children had gone through… it was all for nothing after all.

  'It's all your fault,' she said, still clutching the bottle.

  'How on earth do you work that out?'

  'You're so perfect. It's impossible for me to live up to. It's always been like that. You laugh at me all the time - you've been laughing at me even those last couple of days since we met at the station. I can't compete with you. I might as well just do what I want.'

  'I haven't been laughing,' said Christopher, thinking of the times he had been nearer tears than laughter since Inverkeithing. 'I'm not perfect.'

  'But everybody thinks you are,' she said, took a swig of brandy and started to choke. With tears running down her face she added, 'You were top of the class at school. You went to university. You had a good job. You saved all of us - you and that spy woman. You've never done anything bad. Or wrong.'

  He sighed. 'Even if I were as perfect as that, it doesn't mean your life isn't worth anything.'

  'But it isn't, is it?' she said. The tears kept on running down her face, although she had stopped choking.

  'Of course it is,' he said. 'Surely the therapists have told you that?'

  'I'm just a tiny speck in eternity,' she said. 'I could be wiped away like that!' She snapped her fingers.

  An image came into his head and he started to laugh.

  'Wiped away by the cosmic windscreen wipers? Neutralised by the celestial de-icer spray?'

  She waited for him to calm down, then spoke again. 'You're doing it again!'

  'Laughing? Sorry, Caroline. I don't know what else to do. If I didn't laugh I would cry. You're not the only one who's a speck in eternity - we all are. We've just got to get over it and get on with our lives.'

  He was astonished at how much like a minister he sounded: he had never articulated his ideas about this kind of thing before. Maybe it took a crisis in a tent with your sister to bring out this kind of talk.

  'But what's the point?' wailed Caroline.

  'There isn't any point!' he shouted.

  'So why do we carry on?' she asked.

  'Because it's the only thing to do!' he yelled. 'Why can't you see that, for God's sake?'

  Behind him the tent door was suddenly unzipped, and rough hands grabbed Christopher by the shoulders and hauled him upright.

  'What's going on here?' said a deep masculine voice. 'I don't know if you're scaring this lady, but you're keeping me and my whole family awake!'

  Christopher tried to twist round to see his attacker, but it was impossible.

  Caroline said, suddenly and unexpectedly, 'This is my brother Christopher, and we were just having a philosophical argument.'

  'That's what it's called, is it? Well, either go and have it somewhere else, or pipe down a bit.'

  The intruder released Christopher, who fell on his face on the sleeping bag. He heard the tent door being zipped up again. It was safe to laugh, but he did it quietly, in case the man objected to being laughed at just as Caroline had a few moments before.

  Caroline.

  He pushed himself up to a crouching position to look at her. She smiled at him tentatively.

  'Are you all right?' he asked.

  She nodded. 'I feel better now than I have for a long time.'

  Christopher didn't claim to understand women, but surely sisters were a mutated sub-species, or whatever the biological term was. But if shouting at Caroline over some vague issue to do with the human condition helped her to recover, maybe it was justified.

  He sat up straight and faced her.

  'Is there any brandy left, or are you going to hog it yourself?'

  Sharing a drink with a recovering alcoholic was of course absolutely the wrong thing to do, but Christopher knew that, no matter how hard he tried, he would never do the right thing anyway. He might as well relax and go with the flow for now.

  As rain battered on the top of the tent, they silently shared the last dregs from the bottle and eventually slept.

  Chapter 10 Stormy Waters

  Maisie Sue wasn't sure how safe the boat was. It didn't seem all that impressive, with its peeling paintwork, scruffy seats and odd smell, but if there was one lesson she had taken to heart after two years living in Scotland, it was that she mustn't criticise things based on their appearance. What was unacceptably squalid to her would usually turn out to be perfectly normal - even luxurious - as far as the other inhabitants of Pitkirtly were concerned.

/>   The weather didn't look very promising either. Only yesterday there had been blue sky as far as you could see, and temperatures reaching almost into the twenties - Maisie Sue had learned to count in Centigrade after a couple of embarrassing experiences involving weather forecasts and planned events.

  None of her fellow-passengers had any problem being on board. Jock McLean - why was he here at all? He didn't seem to have enjoyed the speed-dating event, and he had said he wasn't planning to join the Happiness Club because he was perfectly happy the way he was, which Maisie Sue didn't believe for a minute - had settled down in the inside cabin near the bar. Jemima and Dave - again, what were they doing here when it was meant to be a singles club? - were wrapped up in various unattractive layers of waterproof clothing, and had gamely gone up to the top deck, where they sat huddled together and seemed to be treating the event as something to be endured and not necessarily enjoyed.

  Penelope Johnstone, wearing the same sort of clothes as she usually did, making no concessions to the weather or type of activity, had appeared with her son in tow again. Amaryllis jumped aboard at the last moment and prowled up and down on the upper deck until Sean Fraser took her arm and apparently persuaded her to sit down on one of the long benches.

  Maisie Sue, also positioned on the top deck, mainly to avoid Jock McLean, peered around anxiously looking for the lifeboats. She had heard it could be very stormy out in the middle of the Forth, where they were headed. Officially it was a mystery cruise, but everyone knew it would go to Inchcolm, because all trip boats did.

  Sean and his sisters took it upon themselves to circulate. They seemed to be trying to encourage people to chat and socialize, but in most cases it was a losing battle. Maisie Sue could have told them that. In a life-or-death situation such as might arise any moment on this boat trip, people didn't want to have to help complete strangers on to the lifeboat. Their efforts were sure to be reserved for their nearest and dearest. In which case, she thought sourly, Jemima and Dave would be all right, but all the others would be on their own.

  The boat ploughed on through larger and scarier waves. Sean approached Maisie Sue.

  'All on your own today? Wouldn't you care to join some of the others? There are some interesting conversations going on.'

  Yeah, thought Maisie Sue, about what to do if the boat sinks.

  She gave herself a mental shake. It wasn't like her to be so negative: what had got into her? She had been brought up to make the most of every situation, even the least promising. Had she been spending too much time with Amaryllis? Or Jock McLean? Or had she lived in Pitkirtly too long? Maybe she should indeed return to the States for an infusion of fresh optimism, as ubiquitous over there as orange juice.

  'I guess I'll sit here for a while,' she said to Sean. 'And maybe mingle a little on the way back.'

  'Fine,' he said in a tone that suggested the opposite. To her annoyance, he sat down next to her and started talking. What didn't he understand about her wanting to be on her own?

  Now, just stop it, Maisie Sue, said her inner self-critic. This man's making a genuine effort to be nice. Give him a chance, will you?

  An evil thought crossed her mind. Sean Fraser himself wasn't a bad-looking man. In fact, now that she looked at him properly, he might well be a better catch than most of the others on the boat today. He couldn't be much younger than she was, maybe ten years at the most. He was with his sisters, so he probably wasn't married. At the moment. Ha! Said her inner optimist, unceremoniously pushing the critic out of the way. Just go for it, Maisie Sue.

  She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  He paused in his exposition on the benefits of joining the Happiness Club and stared at her.

  'So - will you be taking part in all the events yourself, Mr Fraser?' she said sweetly.

  'Um - that's what I usually do,' he said. 'We can only provide a full programme, of course, once we get more people signed up. This and the speed-dating event - they're just tasters.'

  'So what sort of thing do you have in mind? For future events?' said Maisie Sue. 'A barn dance is always good for breaking the ice.'

  'A barn dance. Hmm. I must admit we hadn't thought of that.'

  'Or do you Brits go more for tea-dances?' she asked. 'I can do either. I was once the Waltz Queen of Red River County. That was some while ago, of course.'

  'Great,' muttered Sean, sliding along the bench and rising to his feet in one movement. 'We'll certainly consider your ideas. But would you like a membership form?'

  'OK, I guess so,' she said, and accepted a bundle of A4 sheets. There seemed to be a lot of boxes to complete.

  'It's a computerised matching form too,' he said. 'It maximises your chances of meeting that special someone. It helps us to make sure people are mixing with each other in the right way too. So we can give clients a better service. There's a space to add in ideas for extra events - you could put your barn dance and tea dance in there if you want.'

  The boat rocked suddenly and he lurched forward, almost colliding with Amaryllis in the gangway.

  'Now, Ms Peebles,' he said to her. 'Haven't I told you already about the danger of wandering about on the top deck?'

  He sounded almost avuncular. Amaryllis wouldn't like that. And certainly the look she gave him as he disappeared down the steps to the lower deck was not at all pleasant. If Maisie Sue had been prone to exaggeration she might even have called it murderous.

  Amaryllis slid on to the bench.

  'You're not going to join his club, are you?' she said.

  'I was kind of planning on it,' said Maisie Sue. 'It seems like the only way I'm going to meet anyone in the timescale I need.'

  'But look at the people you're going to meet here!' said Amaryllis, waving her hand around to include Jemima and Dave, a creepy-looking man in a camouflage jacket with binoculars, and Chief Inspector Smith, whom Maisie Sue hadn't noticed before but who was sitting a couple of rows behind her reading a book. 'I don't know why he's bothered to come either,' she added, lowering her voice only slightly. 'He's been reading his book all the time.'

  'Well, you never know,' said Maisie Sue. The optimist inside was working really hard. 'Sometimes people can be quite surprising.'

  'I don't think so,' said Amaryllis scornfully. 'Now, I've been thinking about identity theft.'

  'Sssh,' said Maisie Sue, glancing over her shoulder at Chief Inspector Smith.

  'Don't worry about him - he isn't taking any notice. The classic way of doing it is to take over a dead person's identity. But nowadays with computers and so on, it's become more feasible to take on the identity of a living person.'

  'Now, you just stop right there, Amaryllis Peebles!' said Maisie Sue. 'Both of these options seem to me to be downright illegal and quite immoral too. I don't know what sort of person you think I am! I'm not the one who spent a lifetime deceiving people in intelligence work, and pretending to be someone else, and I've never deceived my own partner by running off to Gdansk with a blonde floozy either.'

  'No, I suppose not,' said Amaryllis. 'Well, if you do decide that's the only way forward, just say the word and I'll set it all going for you. I've been trying to work out the best way of hacking the Immigration Service computer systems in case we decide to go that route. So don't worry, there's always that option.'

  'That also sounds illegal to me,' said Maisie Sue. 'It would be in the States anyway.'

  'Sometimes you have to break eggs to make an omelette,' said Amaryllis, cryptically.

  'You always have to break eggs to make an omelette,' said Chief Inspector Smith, suddenly appearing behind them. 'Are you planning something dodgy again?'

  'Are you on duty here or what?' said Amaryllis indignantly. 'We were just sharing cookery tips, weren't we, Maisie Sue? And by the way, Mr Smith, did you know Maisie Sue makes really good pancakes? If you ever happen to be in her house, say at breakfast time, make sure you ask her to make you some.'

  She slid along the bench and headed for the steps. Mr Smith and Maisie Su
e looked at each other. She noticed he had very bright, alert-looking eyes of an indeterminate blue-grey-green colour. Now Mr Smith must be around the same age as she was, and she guessed he was single, now that he had appeared at two singles events. She fluttered her eyelashes very slightly and stared up into his face as he spoke. Nobody could possibly object to the future wife of a detective inspector getting a UK visa.

  Operating her eyelashes took such concentration that she wasn't sure what he was saying, but that could come later. First catch your fish…

  Chapter 11 Queasy on Inchcolm

  Amaryllis had been more unnerved than she would have thought possible by Mr Smith's sudden move. There were only two explanations she could think of for him to loom over her and Maisie Sue like that. One was that he had been tipped off by the immigration authorities about Maisie Sue's impending visa problem, and was keeping her under not very subtle surveillance. The other, and much scarier possibility was that he fancied either her or Maisie Sue and had deliberately come along to the Happiness Club to get close to one of them.

  Her first reaction was to hope fervently it was Maisie Sue and not her.

  Her second reaction was to resolve to thwart him in whichever of these aims he was currently pursuing.

  Downstairs in the cabin, Jock McLean sat and stared at the water outside. He seemed even more miserable than usual. Amaryllis sat down next to him.

  'Happiness! Hmph!' he said.

  'I agree,' said Amaryllis. 'It's completely over-rated.'

  'It's a rough day,' he said, watching the waves. 'I hope we won't sink - that'd be the last straw.'

  They looked out together for a while. There was no sign of their destination. Suddenly he stood up and said, 'Sorry, lass, I've got to go now. Can I get past?'

  He rushed off. He had looked a bit grey in the face, and Amaryllis wondered if he was all right. It wasn't like Jock to show any sign of human weakness.

  Surveying her fellow-passengers, she noticed some of the other inhabitants of the cabin weren't looking too good either. One woman had her eyes shut, and moaned softly every time the boat swayed, which was frequently. A middle-aged man clung to the back of the row of seats in front and had a glazed expression on his face.